


Good Omens Coffeeshop AU

by lizurd



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-23 15:10:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20342173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizurd/pseuds/lizurd
Summary: Fairly self-explanatory. Crowley works for Coffee to Raise The Dead, which may or may not be run by the mafia. A short man who works for Cloud Nine Coffee, which sells thirteen dollar decaffeinated fair trade coconut milk lattes, has ordered an item that's not on the menu. Three times. That day.Neither of their bosses is impressed.Crowley is.Anyone who can drink that much sugar in a day must be worth knowing.





	1. Chapter 1

“He’s been in here three times today.” Hastur leant across the counter. The short man watched him. Crowley watched the short man. Hastur's eyes flicked between the two men like he was watching a battle. “You can only have so much caffeine before you die.”  
“It’s mostly sugar,” Crowley said.   
“White death,” Hastur replied. He'd been reading Slim Yourself Beautiful His eyes flickered down the short man’s round body. “Kills you slowly. There’s that hippy...vegan...stuff across the road. You work there, don’t you?” He stabbed his thumb towards Cloud Nine Coffee. There was something growing between the nail and the skin. Two mums in yoga pants were sipping thirteen dollar coffees out the front of the competitor.   
The short man tugged on the front of his waistcoat. Hipster. Ligur leaned around the dividing wall between the main cafe and the kitchen and mimicked the gesture, cackling. Crowley hit the button the coffee machine.   
“That… the frothy thing isn’t even on the menu.” Hastur said. He ran a long-fingered hand through his hair. It didn’t fall back into place. Crowley flicked his ponytail over his shoulder. The short man shot him a nervous smile.   
“And somehow, he still manages to drink it.” Crowley shot back. The short man worked for the coffee shop across the road. He’d been in Coffee to Wake The Dead twelve times that week.   
It was Thursday.  
Not that Crowley was counting.   
Even though the short man worked for Cloud Nine Coffee, and was, therefore, an enemy, Crowley had never particularly liked Coffee to Wake The Dead. Hastur's nails had to be illegal, especially around food, and none of them appreciated finesse. If Crowley dared to add a dash of cinnamon to a coffee, or a sprig of coriander to the watery eggs that Beelzebub scrimped on - seriously, cage eggs - then he would get The Talk about what the Customers Expected.   
Rude.   
They’d even tried to make him chop his hair off. He’d been growing it out for three years and could plait it down to his waist. (A/N my gay ass is a sucker for long haired Crowley so heck you, I’m going to give him long hair also coffee man bun.) They’d said that it didn’t fit with the whole biker/punk/grunge aesthetic. What kind of punk/grunge/biker used the word aesthetic.   
If cute boys who weren’t straight were going to frequent the establishment and order frothy pink unicorn cappuccinos that made a mockery of coffee, Crowley wasn’t above buying sprinkles.  
Then Hastur had come back from his three-hour lunch break and found Him doing his awkward little smile-shirt tug-push his ridiculous reading glasses up his nose-giggle thing. He would have kicked him out on the spot, but he’d already paid three dollars for his towering pillar of sugar and foam and Crowley had told Hastur that he’d paid eight.   
Hastur turned. “Where did you even get sprinkles?”  
“The storeroom?”  
“We have sprinkles?”  
“Where else would I get them?”  
Hastur paused. “Uh.”  
Crowley handed the short man his coffee and straightened his nametag. He’d never been into Cloud Nine Coffee, or properly asked the short man his name, so their relationship was even more than one-sided. It was semi-nonexistent.   
Besides, Short was straight. Obviously. And even if he wasn’t, Crowley had walked past Cloud Nine Coffee in various disguises enough to see the looks that Michael the Manager gave him.   
Michael. Tall, handsome in that creepy dad way, with straight teeth and a smile that made the yoga mums giggle. Crowley looked like a failed rock star with better hair. Michael looked like the dad in a reality TV show for teenagers.   
“You’re staring,” Hastur said.   
Crowley straightened up. He’d been leaning on the coffee machine, head in his hands. He was going to need to disinfect his chin.   
Short was already gone, bustling down the street. Crowley sighed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale Is A Dumbass  
But not as much as Crowley.

Aziraphale was vibrating at the speed of sound. Three cups of diabetes in and he wasn’t going to quit. He’d only meant to have one, and then he’d found Crowley’s tumblr, and he’d seen a photo of Crowley in a flower crown and for crying out loud, how was he supposed to stay away when he’d seen Crowley in a flower crown. He had no excuse for the third time.   
He needed to stop drinking so much coffee. It would be so easy - and much healthier - to just send him a message. Even an anonymous one. Ask if he was free on the weekend. Take him to that artesian ice cream shop and then to a bookstore. It was the perfect date, and it had only taken two hours to think up.   
Aziraphale sighed. He was walking down the street, drinking the syrup and trying to walk in a straight line. Clouds were billowing overhead, grey and pregnant with rain. The sun quivered through, meek and polite, offering its service if you wanted, of course, but you probably didn’t, so it was going to go now. The street was short and should have been bustling. With rain looming, however, all but the bravest had gone into the mall a few blocks away. Two young women were wandering down the other side of the road, bumping hips. They were probably called Karen and Sharon.  
His hands shuddered.   
Yikes. This wasn’t good.   
Ordinarily, Aziraphale would have dropped the coffee in a bin and drank green tea until he could see straight. He wasn’t going to.   
The mafia was Coffee to Wake The Dead’s worst kept secret. They had almost double Cloud Nine Coffee’s patronage, but their coffees were awful and Hastur’s scent was better than fly repellent. Or, well, worse. The dead, vaguely green, skin was probably the only thing holding him together at this point.  
Aziraphale sniffed without meaning to.  
Crowley probably knew about the shady connections. He probably didn’t care. Crowley. That couldn’t really be his name, could it? Like the bird, the omen of death. Probably a stage name, he looked as though he’d stepped off a stage in the eighties into a crowd of groupies.  
Realising that in his fantasy, Aziraphale was one of the wild groupies, he took another slurp of the drink and pressed his palms on his cheeks to cool them. His cheeks got pink at anything that reminded him of Crowley these days.  
Well, Aziraphale wasn’t one to judge names. Even if Crowley was a stage name, he would have been a wonderful musician. He would have been one of those musicians who didn’t even need good music, like Tyson Ritter towards the end of his career, because he was handsome enough and had enough of the aesthetic. Younger rock fans would fawn over him because they thought that they should and those who frequented other genres would make excuses as to why they had pictures of him taped up in their locker.   
Aziraphale had it all planned out.  
He’d never been very into rock music, even when he’d been in his Rebellious Phase, buying a sword because he thought that it was cool and then giving it to one of the year sevens who was being bullied. He’d always preferred classical music, and jazz. And the occasional Lorde song, when he was feeling mopey.  
“This is your third lunch break of the day.”  
Clutching his chest, Aziraphale spun. Uriel folded her arms and narrowed her eyes.  
“Goodness!” He tried to hide the coffee cup behind his back. It didn’t work. Uriel snatched it and held it up to the light.  
“I can see the sugar in this.” She said. Aziraphale ran his hands down his shirt. It was silk and didn’t absorb any of his sweat.  
“Yes, well - ”  
“Gabriel isn’t happy.” She said. Aziraphale made a snatch for his drink. She held it out of his reach. “He was supposed to go home two minutes ago. It’s his daughter’s dance recital today, and he missed the last three.”  
“How did he miss the last three?” Aziraphale asked. “Nevermind. I’m coming, I’m coming. Can I, erm, have my drink?”  
“It’s pink. And caffeinated.” Uriel paused. “And there’s a heart on it.”  
“There’s a heart on it!?” Aziraphale coughed. “There’s a heart on it?”  
Uriel glared at him. “Come on.” She said. “Michael and Gabriel are holding down the fort by themselves, and the soccer game at Little Whinging Park has finished.”  
She was, of course, doing a triple major in biology, law, and art. The three subjects were random, a bit terrible, and completely unrelated. They also meant that she had no time or money for anything else in her life, and somehow showed up in designer clothing and was a sleek little bitch.  
Not, of course, that Aziraphale would call anyone a bitch. Especially not his coworkers. Even if they were bitches. Which they weren’t.  
“What was that?” Uriel said.  
“Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale said. “Please, Uriel, my coffee-”  
Crowley winked as they walked past, and when Uriel deposited Aziraphale behind the coffee machine, he discovered that he had a clear view of the other man if he shoved it to the side a few centimetres.  
He waved at Crowley. Crowley jerked upright, tripped backwards, and vanished behind the counter.


	3. Coffee Dumbasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and various other patrons of Coffee To Wake The Dead mess around and get exactly nothing done.

He had no right to be that cute, and he had no right to move the coffee machine. Crowley had been content watching that ridiculous white puff he called his hair bob back and forwards, and sometimes pop out and talk to the various yoga mums. Moving the machine was entirely inconsiderate of Crowley’s feelings and fragile ego, and now Crowley was going to have to start styling his hair again. Did that… angel across the road know how much time it took? And he was going to have to find his hair curler and his makeup and…   
Oh hell, how was he going to explain his new interest in his appearance to Hastur? Would it be wrong to ambush Hastur and brush his hair? Was it legal? Would it pull out half his scalp? More importantly: would it be worth it, if only so that Angel could see how Hastur’s terrible hygiene had nothing to do with Crowley and wasn’t a comment on Crowley’s sense in style? He could tell Hastur that he looked nice because his ma had died and her funeral was that night, but because she was in a cult they buried every little bit of her one at a time with a different funeral, and he needed to look his best for every single toe.  
How long did bodies take before they decomposed?  
And what if Hastur, he of terrible body hygiene and a strange obsession with death and cults, asked which cult? Or, even worse, asked to come to the funeral?  
Crowley could always get the angel fired, but then he wouldn’t see him at all. He was doing his stupid little smile again, explaining something to a woman and bouncing on the balls of his feet.   
“Crowley?” Ligur leaned around the wall between the kitchen and the cafe.  
“My mum died!”  
The biker, who’d been waiting in line for twelve minutes, patted Crowley’s arm. “I know how it is, it gets hard. I understand.” his eyes were watering. “I lost my ma two years ago, I still dream about her.”  
Hastur’s eyes flickered between the biker, who he’d been ignoring, and Crowley, who he’d been throwing coffee beans at. “You need time off?”  
Oh fuck. Time off meant no Angel Boy, and no Angel Boy meant no...well...no Angel Boy. “No, no, it’s fine. I need to distract myself. You know she was a part of a cult?”  
“You told me that your ma was dead three months ago, and you went to that music festival. I saw you there!” Ligur said.  
“I have two mums. Gay. They’re gay. That’s why two of my mums have died. Ah, she would have wanted me to see Hayley Kiyoko live, she was very into… gay music. It’s the lesbian. Lesbians like her music.” Crowley said.   
“Mm, yes, it’s true.” One of the customers said. She was sitting by the window, leaning back with her boots on the table. Her red hair was almost as long as Crowley’s.  
The weepy biker frowned. “My wife likes her music.”  
The redhead woman by the window stood up and handed the man a card. “Give her my number.” She winked and marched out. The biker looked weepy again.  
“Can I have some warm milk?” he said. Hastur sniggered under his breath. Crowley hit the button on the coffee machine for warm milk.  
Angel waved from across the road. Being a rational person, Crowley poured the hot milk on the biker’s hand and almost swallowed a local fly.  
This was not going to work.


End file.
